


The Fall

by DresdenHaskell



Series: Contingent Events [4]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Backstory, Chronic Illness, Diabetes, Epilepsy, Gen, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:15:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22016224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DresdenHaskell/pseuds/DresdenHaskell
Summary: A glimpse in detail at Van Renard's childhood, dealing with the shocks and stresses of newly-diagnosed chronic illness.And a glimpse into the mind of the vampire presiding over the family.
Series: Contingent Events [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1404748
Kudos: 1





	The Fall

That thirst just wouldn't go away.

Her grandparents cut her off from the juice, then the milk, then the tea. So young Vanessa settled for water, glass after glass of it from the kitchen sink, leaving the footstool there in front of it for convenience.

Her mouth felt cotton dry. Kept getting dryer too, like she was drinking anti-water, just getting thirstier with every glass guzzled. Between a million trips to the toilet, all she had energy left to do was fetch water and nap on the old sofa.

On the Nth trip up, she dragged herself to her feet like boulders weighed her down, tired and heavy, not paying attention to the blurry cartoons on the TV. Shuffling like a con in a chain-gang, she made the journey to the kitchen once more, on a trip that felt ten times longer than all the other, equal trips today.

Vanessa pulled one foot after the other onto the stool, lifted fuzzy, distant-feeling hands to the faucet, and refilled the glass. The kitchen was pale with afternoon light through the curtains. Her grandparents idled on the front porch, creaking and chatting intermittently as late summer cooled.

Noises of creaking wood doubled and rebounded, muffled under themselves. She couldn't tell the difference between voices or the hum of suburban traffic driving by. She realized she hadn't turned off the sink, and she turned the faucet, and her arm thunked against the sink on its return.

The afternoon light was blurry and too bright. She stared into the water glass as she tried and failed to remember her distant mission involving the cold thing in her small hands. White light was overtaking her eyes, sinking down into her heavy muscles to provoke a curious sensation like falling down an elevator shaft.

Tired, heavy. The whole kitchen fell behind a film grain and stained glass windows. She was standing there staring at the water without seeing, for ten seconds, ten minutes, she didn't know which. Tired. Heavy. Thirsty. Blind.

She had a notion of retreat, and instead of whatever she thought she was doing (stepping down as usual), she slid backwards mentally into a vast white nothing as her entire body gave up its muscle tone and slid -- or rather, pitched and crumpled like a sack of potatoes -- onto the tile floor.

It didn't matter much that she was unconscious before impact and missed out on the next few minutes' experience following.

Next thing Vanessa knew her brain was gasping for desperate air from the ocean it had just plunged into for an eternity. She had no idea her name or the day. She had some scattered thoughts of missing school, of doing dishes, of catching her show. She was hauled like a fisher's catch, cold, wet and floundering onto the hard floor of an unfamiliar ship, everything spinning and flashing like a nightmare around her. Terror pounded in her heart, made her fingers cold and unknown, as her head lolled like a fish, too heavy to lift itself now.

She tried to move and flopped. Every bone and muscle hurt like she'd just been trampled by elephants. The nightmare she couldn't remember from only moments ago was clawing into the back of her skull, trying to pull her back. She did what any sensible child would do: She screamed.

And then she rolled onto her side and vomited into the puddle of water already surrounding her. Pain in her arms, new pain, and she saw blood. There was broken glass in her skin. She vomited again.

Noises painfully slammed and shouted towards her, and her grandparents surrounded her. They were shouting, asking her things, moving her, rushing around. What things? What direction? She hadn't quite synced back up with just the kitchen, and her brain just gave up on the blur of noise and motion.

\---

Cold.

Cold interior. White walls, white floor, white ceiling. Horrible, colorless hell.

Cold lighting. No colorful stained-glass lamps. No fireplace.

Cold bed. A steel frame, a narrow square mattress, a couple of white sheets, something that barely passed for a blanket instead of a third sheet.

Cold noise. Her beating heart reduced to a lifeless, digital beeping.

Everything hurt.

She missed her grandparents' house. She missed her real house. She was missing (the realization hitting like a rock to the stomach) her dad. He handled boo-boos. He used to. He had been a warm hugger, and Vanessa was despondently cold and small right now.

\---

A sick sense of shame had sunk over her. If only she'd listened to her grandparents, and not drank so much juice and milk, or such sweet tea. If she hadn't sneakily eaten so much candy. She thought it wouldn't hurt. Her friend had a lot of candy, and Vanessa said it was fine. And if only she didn't let her grandparents forget about the shots, because she hated those, and thought it would be okay if she just didn't take them all the time.

Well, she wasn't thinking a lot of "what if"s exactly, because Vanessa was never terribly introspective, except in the worst ways: Discovering in quick moments new reasons to feel ashamed of herself and hate the world.

They had to throw away that dress. It was covered in blood stains, vomit, and urine. Even more shame. What kid her age did that?

Nevermind that anyone of any age would do that in that situation, involuntarily. But she didn't care. She hated it. She still felt awful, and nobody was going to make it better.

\---

Charles Hewitt regarded his "niece" (the granddaughter of his good friends the Renards) with quick mental summary. Louis and Gladys had summoned him for emergency babysitting while they ran off to handle some emergency expenses over this or that -- they had earned his trust enough not to need his permission, nor did he need an explanation, although he was reconsidering the latter now, looking over Vanessa.

He had missed whatever sorry debacle occurred. So he gave a genuine little start of surprise at Vanessa's state when he saw her peppered in fresh bruises and cartoon-print Band-Aids.

She hugged her knees, sitting against the furthest corner of the sofa, facing the wall and glaring at nothing. Typical posture of her moments of deep despair or self-loathing. Odd things, perhaps, for such a little girl to feel. But then what did an old man hiding a much older monster know about feeling things?

"What happened, Vanessa?" the old gentleman asked in his gentlest tone.

"I fell," she said thickly.

Ah. Her own blood curse. He inhaled deeply, but silently, from where he stood. Yes, as he thought. Fresh blood beneath the bandages. Crusting blood. Immune response. Sickly-sweet breath. Blood with too much tang, too much acid to be healthy. Lingering sharp smell of the hospital.

"Again?" he said softly. "Where were your grandparents?"

"On the porch," Vanessa said. "I fell in the kitchen. I was thirsty."

"Why didn't y--"

"It was just water! I don't need help for water!" she snapped bitterly, hunching her shoulders as her hands tightened. "I didn't know it would happen!"

He limped over with his cane, unobtrusively, and sat in the middle of the sofa, listening with a sympathetic expression. Best to let her rage, and be at hand for whenever she decided to turn around and seek a hug or something. Not yet. That was weakness, he knew she thought, and at the moment weakness was her enemy.

"I hate this!" she spat, fingers clutching moons into her own arms. "I hate being sick all the time!"

She dug her face against her knees as she gave a wordless shout-growl of pure acidic anger and hate at her defeat by her own body.

And then her body released its tension all at once, shoulders sinking, defeated again, with a stifled weep. "But I am," she said in her cracked voice. "I'll never get better. I'm like this forever."

"Hm."

Thoughts turned over with slow and careful precision in Charles' head, as everything ever did. He wasn't prone to rage and rush. He was prone to constant thought and planning. This was an untenably unfair situation for all involved. He could see few exits, few if any ways to save her, to save her family.

"I'm sorry, dear," he said at last, showing sympathy. "Can I get you anything?"

The question gave her pause, as she had to think about if she did, in fact, want anything. Eventually she reached some inner consensus, and just silently unfolded herself up and scooted over to Charles, flopping against him in a heavy side-hug laden with sickly exhaustion.

Ah, well. Sunk costs happen to everyone. You pick up the pieces and make do with what's left. For now, that meant allocating what he must to make Vanessa's existence comfortable, for as long as she might cling to being. Ledgers and calendars laid themselves out neatly in his tidy mind, and collated themselves up in some folders in a corner of things to worry about between more pressing tasks. Today's emergency had passed. And no wealth could speed along the healing of boo-boos.

Charles gingerly returned the hug, mindful of her injuries, then settled back with just a hand on her shoulder, his thoughts far and away from the present moment.

He had to find new wards to sponsor. Oh, he'd continue to patron the Renards. He gave his word, and he intended to keep it. He'd protect this family so long as it survived.

But Vanessa would be the end of it sooner or later. He had other families under his wing, of course. Who would bank everything in one place? But this changed his timeline. She would be too weak for too long, maybe forever, and no one would come after to take her place. Impossible? No. Recommended? Certainly not ever. Best to let this bloodline die.

Plans, calendars, projections. Assets, realty, cogs.

It all circled around one thing in the end.

That thirst just wouldn't go away. 


End file.
